


if i loved you less

by TheEagleGirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Emma AU, F/M, Pining, also there's fan art!, jane austen's mind...unparalleled, kinda a fusion of different Emma adaptations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:08:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24204919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/pseuds/TheEagleGirl
Summary: Her father has, often and fondly, told Sansa that she and Mr. Snow bite at each other like wolves, but he hardly understood that their verbal sparring was as exhilarating as a sport well done, or a match coming together under Sansa’s skilled hands.~An Emma AU
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 24
Kudos: 152





	if i loved you less

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amymel86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymel86/gifts).



> This fic (and art) is for Amy, who donated money to coronavirus relief efforts! You're the best, Amy!

“Who will you dance with?” Mr. Snow asks her, so low that his words are almost swallowed by Mr. Manderly calling for one last round. Sansa is barely aware that she’s made a decision before she turns to him.

“You, of course,” she says, though by all rights she should be seeking out Harry Hardyng once more before the night ends. “We are not so much brother and sister as to make it improper.”

Mr. Snow looks taken aback, for half a moment, before he smiles. “No, it would not be too improper.”

She takes his hand when he offers it, allows him to escort her to the floor. Sansa realizes too late that she’s forgotten her gloves on the chair--but it is no matter once they take their places across from one another, and Sansa can feel the warm spread of pleasure under her chest--it’s been so long since they had a proper dance in Winter Town, and this night could not have gone better if she tried. Even Mr. Greyjoy refusing to dance with Jeyne could not upset her, not when Mr. Snow had stepped in so gallantly and cheered her little friend’s spirits. 

“So you _can_ dance,” Sansa had teased, between two sets earlier, and Mr. Snow had rolled his eyes playfully at her. Her father has, often and fondly, told Sansa that she and Mr. Snow bite at each other like wolves, but he hardly understood that their verbal sparring was as exhilarating as a sport well done, or a match coming together under Sansa’s skilled hands. Harry Hardying comes close, but no one can snipe at each other the way Sansa and Mr. Snow do.

The music starts, and the dance begins.

It is strange, dancing without gloves, stranger still because Mr. Snow is not wearing his either. Sansa is not accustomed to touching her partner’s naked hand during a dance, but she rather likes the warm press of his fingers on hers when they meet, scandalous as it would be to say it aloud. 

He really is a skilled dancer. Not as much as Harry, perhaps, or even Mr. Greyjoy, but he knows the steps and takes care to lead her well. There’s a sort of grace, Sansa supposes, to the way Mr. Snow moves, and she finds that she’s enjoying this last dance more than all the others combined. In fact, there is a strange, unfamiliar sensation building in Sansa--but she finds she does not mind it much, not when she is warm and giddy and breathless all over. 

She looks up, to say something inane and witty perhaps, and discovers that Mr. Snow’s eyes are already on hers, grey and steady in the light of the candles. She’s looked into those eyes countless times before, but this, on this perfect night, is somehow _different,_ in a way that Sansa cannot quantify. They separate half a moment later, and reconnect after a turn around the line. When their hands touch again, a shudder crawls up Sansa’s spine, and she can only think _oh._

  
  


Realizing that it was _not_ Harry Hardyng that she loved, but one _Mr. Jon Snow,_ complicates Sansa’s life in many ways. Chiefly, because Mr. Snow is, for all intents and purposes, a part of the family--Arya and his brother Aegon have been married for two years, after all--and their neighbor besides. It would _not_ do to jeopardize any affection between their two households, especially since Sansa sometimes has the notion that Mr. Snow might still think of her as the frivolous child she’d been when he first met her. 

So, yes--better to ignore him, she thinks, and simply _will_ the feelings to disappear. Her previous infatuations always have, after all, and her flirtation with Harry has all but evaporated within a moment. 

The problem is--the strange tightness in her chest doesn’t go away. It gets worse, in fact, every time that Mr. Snow is near. She finds herself flustered around him in a way she’s never been before, unable to string together a complete sentence without turning red. 

“I should like to see Sansa in love one day,” she remembers Mr. Snow telling her father once, fresh off a row about her attempts at matchmaking and, in his words, meddling in other people’s affairs. “In love, and in some doubt of its return. It would do her good.”

It doesn’t _feel_ as though it’s doing her any good, this hopeless flutter in her chest when she thinks about him--his kind grey eyes, the barely repressed grin when their conversation goes over everyone else’s heads. It doesn’t feel good to know she wants him in this way, and that he sees her as a spoilt girl, with nothing to do but play with the happiness of others.

She takes some comfort in the fact that, terrible as this all is, she is in no danger of it getting _more_ embarrassing. She knows where she stands now, and where he would stand, if he knew of her feelings. Best to stay away, to avoid more complicated, untidy thoughts that tended to arise in his company.

At least, Sansa tells herself, this is the worst it would be. She would try to forget him, and it would be over soon. 

What a lie that was.

  
  
  


Sansa is in a state near shock after Jeyne Poole--her little, hopeless, _stupid_ friend--blurts out, “I’m in love with Mr. Snow!”

For a moment, Sansa is at a loss for words. Several rise up, all less kind than the last, but she settles on something safer: “I thought you still had feelings for Mr. Greyjoy?”

Jeyne’s nose wrinkles. “No,” she says resolutely, “not since the dance, that night. Oh, Mr. Snow was so kind, Miss Stark, you must believe it. He asked after me, and how I was feeling, and danced with me three times!”

Sansa can hardly breathe, but she hears herself ask all the same, “And did he give you reason to believe your affections were returned?”

She dreads the answer. She doesn’t want to hear if Mr. Snow thinks Jeyne Poole hung the stars in the sky. Perhaps, she thinks wildly, she could faint. It would put a stop to all this talk, and Jeyne would be too concerned for her to mention Mr. Snow again for ages. 

There will be no fainting today, though, as Jeyne prattles on happily about how, _Yes, I rather think he did!_ Sansa--for all the love she bears her little friend--is happy to see the back of her when it comes time for tea to end. 

_It will be better when I wake up,_ Sansa thinks, when she goes to bed that night. _I will not love him in the morning. I will be happy for him and Jeyne._

She doesn’t sleep well. When the sunlight wakes her--slanting golden through her curtains--Sansa still cannot put it from her mind. _Jeyne!_ And Mr. Snow! Whatever would the two of them have to talk about? Jeyne, bless her soul, wasn’t _interesting_ enough for Mr. Snow. She wouldn’t be able to tell if he was making a joke, masked in that falsely somber tone of him. And Mr. Snow would be bored of her, and Jeyne would grow weary of him, for being so serious. Jeyne was half a child anyways, and Mr. Snow needed someone with more maturity, someone who challenged him and could make him laugh, even when he was cross. 

Sansa is awake and out of bed when her maid comes in, a rare occurrence, but she wants to go for a walk, to banish all thoughts of Jeyne and Mr. Snow and the wedding bells she can already hear. Perhaps the crisp air will do her good, although Sansa doubts it will fully soothe the ache in her heart. Oh, how miserable this all was! By all rights, she should love to be happy for Jeyne, finding love. She ought to be happy for Mr. Snow as well, bachelor that he was, for falling for a girl as sweet--if simple--as Jeyne. 

Sansa is so lost in thought that she doesn’t hear her name being called until Mr. Snow is only ten feet away from her. She’d been wandering on the grounds aimlessly, blue flowers freshly plucked in her hands, but at his voice she looks up, realizes where she is--nearly to the chestnut tree. She wants to hide, put off the conversation that _must_ be coming, although it’s too late. He’s seen her. 

“How do you do?” Mr. Snow asks. There is something stiff in his bearing, but Sansa is relieved for it. Perhaps it will be easier if they are more formal. “You look as though something has upset you, Sansa. Are you well?”

“Yes,” she lies. Her voice wobbles. Sansa has to take a deep breath so it will not betray her again.

“I--” Mr. Snow looks lost for a moment. “I heard about Mr. Hardyng. Running away with that poor girl, Myranda. She will be miserable within the year, and deserves better. I am sorry,” he says, “for I know you were fond of him.”

In truth, Sansa has barely thought of Harry Hardyng’s elopement with Myranda Royce--she’d been shocked, yes, but more so embarrassed at how she’d thrown herself at him.

“You mistake me, sir. I am not upset because I lost a chance with Harry. I am more ashamed of--of how I acted. Nothing more.”

“Oh,” Mr. Snow says, looking surprised. “Good. Good, because he does not deserve your regard after toying with you in such a manner.”

“You sound as though you envy him,” Sansa accuses, without thinking. The words fly forward and she wishes she could snatch them back.

“But I do,” he says. “I envy him very much.”

Sansa bites her lip, and studies her hands, the sky, anything but Mr. Snow. She daren’t ask--if she were to find out he felt strongly for Myranda Royce as well! Sansa would never live down the embarrassment.

“You are determined,” Mr. Snow begins, and clears his throat. “You are determined to not ask me the cause of my envy. Wise, I think, of you--but I cannot be wise, not anymore. Sansa, dearest Sansa. I must tell you, even if you will not ask. I must tell you, even if I wish it unsaid in the next moment.”

“Then don’t!” Sansa blurts out. “If you would want something unsaid, better to not say it at all.”

Mr. Snow looks stricken at her words. Sansa feels terrible immediately.

“I--” he starts, and then turns away. “I see.”

“Wait,” she calls, softly. “I’m sorry, please, tell me what you want to. I didn’t mean that. You and I are friends, aren’t we? Tell me, as a friend, what you would like.”

She sees him swallow. Sansa braces herself, prepares for the words: _I love Jeyne. I want to marry her._ Instead, he says, “You tell me, Sansa. Do I have no hope of succeeding?”

 _With Jeyne?_ Her stomach sinks. 

He takes a breath, and Sansa thinks she sees his hand shake, when he reaches forward to take hers. “I cannot make speeches, Sansa,” he tells her. “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am. You hear nothing but truth from me. I have blamed you and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in England would have borne it. But you understand me now? You understand my feelings?”

Sansa’s heartbeat roars in her ears. She must have misheard him. She must have. “Your… feelings?” she repeats weakly. “You love _me_?”

Mr. Snow looks more nervous than she’s ever seen him. There are worried lines on his forehead and around his eyes. His hair isn’t as perfectly arranged as she’s used to. In fact, he looks like he’s slept just as well as Sansa has. 

“Yes,” he says. “Yes.”

Suddenly, his hands are the only things anchoring Sansa to the earth. If not for him, she fancies that she could float away. Her heart is beating like a drum in her ears, but she feels a smile spread across her face. 

Seeing her smile, Mr. Snow’s in answer is hesitant, and blinding in its beauty. “Do I dare to hope you feel the same, Sansa?”

“You may,” she tells him tartly, but her red cheeks betray her. 

She will figure out what to do about Jeyne later-- Perhaps that young farmer that caught her eye when she first arrived will spark their old feelings of love, and Jeyne will forget all about Mr. Snow. Sansa knows she will make things right, when it comes to it. But for now, in the shade of the old chestnut tree, Sansa is perfectly happy, and when Mr. Snow kisses her hand, she feels as though she could soar.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! if you enjoyed this, please leave kudos/a comment! 
> 
> You can also follow me on tumblr @ladystarks


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